Thermai Vignettes - 1. Chapter 1: Vignette 1: Children in Slavery

Vignette 1: Children in Slavery

Barry Stern, EdD, PhD, pressed the remote controller. The last slide faded from the screen. The audience seemed restless, but he asked, “Are there any questions?”

There were none. Was it because his presentation was the last one before the lunch break? Was it because his presentation was of no interest? Was it because his presentation was too disturbing to be believed even by the people who were attending this United Nations conference?

Barry pressed the button that brought up the house lights, and watched as people bustled from the auditorium. His seminar on child slavery had been fairly well attended—the aisles were crowded as people left their seats, and the auditorium emptied slowly—yet it seemed to Barry that he had made little impression on the delegates.

He sighed, pulled the flash drive with his PowerPoint® slides from the slot on the lectern, and gathered up his notes. He almost missed the gentle cough that came from a few feet away. When he looked up, he saw a boy dressed in what appeared to be a school uniform: navy blue shorts, white knee socks above highly-polished black shoes, white shirt, and a tie with a regimental stripe.

“Sir? I have a question, please,” the boy said.

Barry stuffed his laptop and notes into his briefcase and then said, “Sure. Whatever.” He gestured toward the now empty auditorium. “Didn’t take them long to leave.” Something resonated in Barry’s mind and he knew he’d said the wrong thing to the boy.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean it that way,” Barry said. “I mean that whatever question you have, I will try to answer.”

The boy nodded. “Thank you, sir. I was taught to doubt everything, for doubt leads to questioning, and only if one questions, can one learn. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but, are there really 150 million child slaves in the world, or is that just something you say to get funding?”

Barry was startled. Not because of the question—he’d been asked that before—but because it came from someone so young.

“Yes,” he said. “There are. But if you had been able to see my whole program, including the parts they wouldn’t let me show, you would know that slavery means different things. Some people consider children in India, who are working off debts inherited from their parents to be slaves. I couldn’t say that, or I’d have offended the delegation from India. Some consider boys in Bangladesh, who are often apprenticed at the age of 13, to be slaves until they are 18 years old. I couldn’t say that, or I’d have offended the delegation from Bangladesh—all one of him.

“Some consider children in California and Florida who work—often with their parents and siblings—in the agricultural fields bringing cheap produce to the tables of America to be slaves. Obviously, I can’t say that, or I’d lose my tenure at a California university. If I lost that, I’d lose what little platform and what little influence I have. Some people consider the child-soldiers of the Sahel to be slaves. I could probably say that, but saying that, in isolation from all the rest, would have painted a distorted picture.

“Before I can answer your question, we have to have an understanding about exactly what slavery is.”

The boy in the school uniform nodded. “I understand. Peter Abelard also told us to be precise in our use of words, and to demand precision from others.

“May we talk for a while?”

Barry looked around the now-empty auditorium and then chuckled.

“I have no more presentations, and I’m not sure I will learn anything I don’t already know from the seminars and programs that are left on the schedule. Yes, we can talk.

“I haven’t had lunch, though. Can you join me in the cafeteria? Oh, and what’s your name?”

“I am Linden,” the boy replied. “And I would very much like lunch! Does this cafeteria have pizza?”

* * * * *

There was some buzz in the cafeteria. I did not associate it with me until Linden giggled, and covered his mouth and then his face. He saw my puzzlement, blushed, and said, “They’re wondering why someone who is so much opposed to child slavery is having lunch with a kid, and if you are fucking me.”

I was shocked both by what Linden said and by the language he used to say it. I addressed the easier of the two.

“Linden, there are many ways of expressing what we want to say without using vulgar terms—”

“You mean, like ‘fucking,’” he said.

“Exactly!” I replied. My lips were now set in a straight line, and my brow was furrowed.

Linden turned pale, and then looked down at his plate and said, “I am sorry. I will learn. Thank you for instructing me.”

That pretty much deflated the balloon of my anger. But it didn’t answer the question in my mind: how did he know what the others were thinking? I was sure he spoke from knowledge. And, Linden seemed to know what I was thinking.

“I know what they are thinking about you—and us—” he said, “because . . .”

There was a long pause. I waited. In fact, I out-waited Linden, who finally said, “I don’t know how to say it.”

“You just say the words,” I said. “If I believe you, it’s easy. If I don’t believe you, then it’s either because you’re not telling the truth or because I’m too stupid to understand the truth. In either case, we walk away. If I believe you, then we move on to the next step.”

Linden then said words that I had a really hard time understanding, much less believing. Seems that Linden was a tree. Or that he lived in a tree. A linden tree, naturally. I remembered unter dem Linden from somewhere, although I’d never seen a linden tree—at least, not seen one and known what it was. Not much difference between being a tree and living in one, from where I was sitting.

Seems that Linden had been given a mission by some really powerful dude named Lucas to find out how to get help for children who were being hurt. “ . . .children who are being hurt in this reality,” Linden had said. I wasn’t sure what he meant, and figured it was just the way he talked.

I thought carefully as he spoke, and decided that I should probably believe him. His story was fanciful, but it hung together too well not to be true. It was just too complicated and consistent to be the imagination of someone that young.

When he finished, I asked, “What do you want from me?” ’Cause I knew he wanted something.

“It’s not just me, sir,” he said. “It’s the guy I work for and it’s a bunch of other people. It’s really hard to understand. Will you come with me to meet some of them?”

I thought about the schedule for the rest of the UN convocation. I had no more presentations, and nothing on the schedule interested me. It was perhaps with a little show me attitude from my upbringing in Missouri that I said, “Sure, whatever.”

I stood and reached for my tray, but suddenly was no longer in the cafeteria in Stockholm. I was standing on the patio of a white, marble house surrounded by ancient oak trees. Linden was no longer wearing a school uniform, but a longish T-shirt, cinched at the waist, and sandals. Another kid, perhaps a couple of years older than Linden, and who was wearing the same kind of clothes, walked toward me, with his hand extended.

“Dr. Stern? I’m Lucas. Thank you for coming.”

* * * * *

Lucas’ questions about children in slavery continued from where Linden’s had left off. I answered as well as I could.

“Most Americans don't know that the out-of-season fruits and vegetables they eat are picked by child slave labor in countries from South America to Australia to America, itself—yes, the USA, and mostly California and Florida.”

“Would it make a difference if they knew?” Lucas asked.

“Probably not. Almost 75% of USA Americans identify themselves as Christians. They seem to have lost sight of what that means. Many of them are so involved in the notion that as Christians they are so far above the lesser races—especially the non-white races—on the Great Chain of Being, that those races are not worthy of their notice, much less their concern.

“As long as the child slaves are dark-skinned, they’re of little consequence,” I said.

“Dr. Stern, we—”

“Lucas, please forgive me for interrupting,” I interrupted. “You have introduced yourself as Lucas. I think you are much older and wiser than you appear. Please, call me Barry.”

Lucas smiled. “Thank you, Barry, I will be happy to do that.

“Barry, we—and we means not only the dryads like Linden, but others including people you will meet in time—we have determined that we must address the abuse of children that exists on your world. One problem we have is what to do with the children we rescue.

“We are few but powerful. However, our powers do not seem to fit this problem. We need allies, people in your world who can arrange homes for these children. We need people who will not abuse them, but who will nurture them.”

Lucas sat back in his chair. I was afraid, more afraid than I’d been when Linden teleported me to this world. More afraid than I’d ever been.

“Lucas,” I whispered. “I cannot do this.”

“Why not?” Lucas asked. His eyes . . . his eyes seemed to bore into my soul.”

“You know, don’t you?” I asked. “You can see . . . why, then, do you ask me?”

Lucas repeated his question as if he’d not heard what I said. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a goddamned pedophile!” I shouted. “I try . . . I try so hard to . . . to kill that with my work. I try to . . . You must . . . you have to know I got excited when Linden said the other delegates wondered if I were fucking him . . . I almost . . .”

Lucas was smiling.

“What is so funny?” I asked. I pushed my anger deep into the recesses of my mind. My voice was calm, level. I thought of ice cubes, and tried to make my voice cold.

“Linden knew all this before he spoke to you the first time. He knew, but like all the dryads, he’s a terrible tease.”

“What?” The world was spinning around me, and I barely held on to reality, or whatever passed for reality in this place.

“Linden, like most of the dryads, is more than a thousand years old. Second, Linden knew that you were attracted to boys. That’s why he selected the outfit he wore. It was from one of your fantasies, was it not?”

Lucas didn’t give me a chance to reply before he continued. “Linden also knew that he was safe with you. He knew, with absolute certainty, that you would not hurt him. I knew as well that he was safe, or I’d never have allowed him to take on this mission.

“You would never hurt a boy—”

“But, I have,” I whispered. “I have.”

“Arthur,” Lucas said.

I nodded my head, and then began crying. I could not speak, but I knew Lucas took my actions to be a yes.

“Arthur was not a child; he was an eighteen-year-old high school dropout living on the streets. Arthur was looking for comfort,” Lucas said, and I knew he was speaking from sure knowledge. “But Arthur didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what he was looking for. You gave him one form of comfort: you took him into your bed.

“But you also took him into your heart. You helped him pass his GED. You helped him make a successful application to university. You helped him qualify for financial aid. You did the things his family could not do, because they were unequipped and unwilling. It was he, and not you, who cut the cord that bound you. You did not abandon him. When he left you, he was prepared to fly on his own, to survive and to flourish.

“For years, you have felt guilty for abandoning him. Your guilt is misplaced. He is happy, he is successful, and he named his first son for you.”

My throat tightened, and I could not speak. More tears clouded my eyes, and I could not see. I felt arms surround me, hold me, hug me. I thought they were Lucas’ arms but when I regained self-control, I realized they were Linden’s.

Chapter End Note: The conditions of children described, above, are real and reflective of the reality in which you are reading this. Google terms such as “child slavery” to overwhelm yourself with data.

These vignettes and short stories are a continuation of “Prometheus Wakens,” which can be found among David McLeod’s stories on the www.gayauthors.org web site. The reader may find it useful to read those chapters, first.

As on all Earth Analogues and in all realities, “boy” refers to a young male of the age of consent.